Escape to the North
by pecannutespresso
Summary: Sandor and Sansa run away during the Battle of Blackwater. In this story THERE'S SO MUCH SMUT AND I STRETCHED IT OUT, also his sister isn't long lost. M right off the bat kids.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: In this, Sandor and Sansa escape during Blackwater and Sandor's sister isn't long-lost.

Joffrey walked off—right for the girl whose brilliant blue eyes were brimming with tears. Her sharp jaw clenched, Sandor assumed under her massive sleeves she had her fists balled up, ready to slam her dainty fist into Joffrey's face. He deserved a punch. Just one.

Sandor understood the reason why Eddard Stark and his entourage were beheaded—a swift death, but he needn't show her.

The poor thing already realized being married to Joffrey wouldn't turn out like she'd dreamed of since she'd been a wee babe. Seeing her father's head on a wooden post would only destroy her before they even married. He felt for her. Watching his mother being taken in front of her three children and a knife drug across her throat had ruined him. A delicate soul like Sansa Stark would crumble right before their eyes.

Joffrey called to her but she stood frozen.

"Do as your bid, child." As soon as he'd said it, he could hear the softness in his voice. By no means were they feelings for the girl, if anyone, it extended from his care of Joffrey—a young man he'd known since he came into being.

Sansa spun on her heels, following after her betrothed and Ser Meryn, his armor clanking with each step. Together, they walked down the halls until they reached the line of beheaded enemies.

Joffrey stopped at a wooden plank, connecting the palace hall and the heads. He stood in the middle of the makeshift bridge and flourished his cape, a show for his bride-to-be.

The plan had been to present Eddard Stark's head on a stake to Sansa. A prize from her king. A prize to the people of King's Landing from their competent new ruler.

Instead, Sandor readied himself to catch the girl should she faint. The alabaster skin stretched over her lean body already made her look lifeless, the second glance she took at her father's head turned her almost blinding white.

His muscles tensed, not blinking as he watched the girl's body shake.

"Look at him!" Joffrey barked, causing Sansa to jump. Her small body tensed like she'd been struck. "Well?" He barked again.

Rosen's young face flashed before his eyes. A drunken village man stumbled across the youngest Clegane while she fetched water. The drunkard mistook the young Rosen for his whore—even before she'd had her first blood. Before Gregor had gotten to him, the man struck her, causing her small frame to jump and shake.

"How long do I have to look?" Sansa looked up to the sky—if she'd be smart, she'd look past her father's head. Block it from her direct site, but Sandor hadn't had a chance to tell her.

Why couldn't the girl understand the boy king's attitude?

"As long as it pleases me." Joffrey broke his stare from her and flashed his eyes to Sandor. "Do you want to see the rest?"

"If it please Your Grace."

Ser Meryn clutched her by her shoulders, forcing her to stay looking forward. Her voice went dead, the voice wasn't hers, a god's voice pulling through her.

"That's your septa, there. I'll tell you what. I'm going to give you a present. After I raise my armies, and kill your traitor brother, I'm going to give you his head, as well."

In the short amount of time that Sandor watched over Joffrey, he'd grown accustom to the king's dramatic speeches.

The young man stared at Sansa, waiting for a reply. The three men would never have guessed her response, or that she'd look him in the eyes. Sandor stifled a chuckle. Not many dared to speak out of turn with Joffrey.

For half of a moment, Joffrey stood shocked, unsure of what to do or say; Sandor knew whatever brewed in his brain would end in pain and tears for the girl.

"My mother tells me a king should never strike his lady. Ser Meryn?"

Meryn spun her around.

In his head, Sandor pulled Meryn off of the little bird and beat him until his heart stopped then took his turn with Joffrey. In reality, Sandor could only watch as Meryn lifted his hand to the porcelain face and struck her twice, leaving her breathless and wounded. She turned back round to face her future husband. By just looking at her stance, Sandor thought surely she'd fling herself over the wall.

Her eyes locked on the bottom of the wall, far below them.

Men had been tossed from the wall and lived. In extreme pain, but lived. A young thing like Sansa would break by the fall.

Joffrey sighed in peace, unable to bring his own hand to her face. Sometimes, Sandor wondered if the young man received more pleasure having someone else do his dirty work.

Sansa moved to stand by her king when Sandor stopped her to wipe the blood from her pouty lip.

"Here, girl," his hand clutched her shoulder a moment before she went to push him.

Every synapse in his brain told him to slaughter the boy king and Meryn before retreating with Sansa to safety where no harm could ever befall her again. But, he knew there would be no chance for that in his lifetime.

Sandor Clegane felt a drip of water on his face. He wiped it away, but it seemed thicker than rain. Another drip and then a huff of hot air. Blindly reaching his hand out, he swatted Stranger away from him, how the bloody beast could manage so much spit made him dizzy with anger. The horse snorted and stomped away.

"Wait, Stranger, come back here!"

The usually stern and entirely too serious, yet musical, voice snapped; followed by stomping of feet. The feet grew closer and Sandor could hear a huffy breath—this time not from the massive animal. He kept his eyes closed, not wanting to wake up from the dream.

"Sandor!" She screeched. "I had just finally gotten him to like me," she gave him a sharp jab in the side with her foot.

She went to stomp off, but he caught her smooth and supple foot in his massive palm sending the lady Sansa toppling over and landing with a soft thud on Sandor's chest. He took in a sharp breath of air and groaned which only caused Sansa to sing with laughter.

"You'll be careful around him, he won't hesitate to bite your hand off." Sandor rolled into a sitting position.

"That's why he ate three apples out of my hand."

"Three apples? Seven Hells, girl, you'll cause him to go lame. Then how will we travel?"

Sansa, sitting with her legs crossed and facing him, shrugged her shoulders. "I should have fed you three apples."

For a second, his brown eyes bore into her, a deadpan look on his scarred face. Inside he fought down the urges to rip her new dress from her lithe body and take her right up against the tree. His hand wrapped around some of the grass that still stood and tossed it into her lap.

Had it been two months ago, she would have screeched. Cried, maybe.

But that had been a long time ago. A different world. A different life. Before Blackwater. Before he'd swept Sansa Stark from her cage in King's Landing. They fled through the city as fast as they could and sped up their travels as soon as they'd escaped the burning capital. Sandor hadn't needed to push Stranger as fast and hard as he did. The sight of Wildfire being flung toward the enemy scared him more than seeing Sansa suffer under Joffrey and Cersei's thumb.

The farther Stranger took them, the more each of them relaxed.

The little bird went from being a diligent travel partner, clinging to him from behind as they rode to sleeping in his arms as they made their way. As soon as they'd stop for a rest, she'd set to making a fire and he'd find the most nutritious meat he could. It would cook. They would talk of fictional stories, and real ones. They'd eat and drink, something that the girl grew to love more and more. Sansa would braid her hair over and over while he slept. Sometimes she'd find a small woodland creature—just like the fictional princess she thought she'd grow to be—and would grow angry when he'd try to cook it once he awoke.

They'd grown accustom to each other.

Almost caring, but each of them scared that the world would catch up to them as they went farther from the place and people they hated.

"You're thinking too much." She stood, letting the lush green grass fall onto his breeches.

"One can never _think_ too much, little bird."

She snapped him a leering look.

His little bird had turned into anything but, his nickname now a reminder of their time at the palace. After the fifth time she'd "accidentally" elbowed his groin, he used it only to make a solid point.

"And now," her face melted back to her delicate features, "we speak freely."

"As freely as we can," he reminded.

Though they'd taken the backstory of being husband and wife, the pair knew there were Lannister eyes everywhere. Hiding and reporting what they could—even if it proved fruitless. Sandor knew they had to keep their wits about them.

"Shall we continue?"

Sansa pulled a twig from Stranger's, recently groomed, mane.

"He'll have to run off those apples you gave him some time." Sandor saddled up the monster. Where he could toss the saddle over him with ease, Sansa couldn't. Hells, she couldn't get _on_ Stranger without his help.

She stretched her arms, causing her breasts to rise with the dress. The sun caused her skin to glow and the twinkle in her eye to sparkle brightly.

Sandor wanted nothing more to take her in his arms and kiss her enticing plump lips until she begged him for air. He shook the sweet thought from his head.

"Are we riding far today?"

His hands gripped her just under her rib cage. The wine she drank caused her hips to grow ever so slightly, but he noticed and rejoiced in it. Her figure filled out to more womanly than living in King's Landing would have ever got her. One morning he'd mentioned that and she'd thrown everything her hands could reach at his head. A good shot, but he dodged each attempt.

"No," he huffed. His muscular leg swung over Stranger's back and nestled behind Sansa's, who'd given up riding side-saddle days into their trip.

They molded together as Stranger began to walk down the path they'd rested near.

Gone were the days when Sansa's posture would match that of a board of wood. Gone were the days of her intricate hair styles that now flowed freely and grew longer than she'd ever had it.

The Battle of Blackwater had changed them. Had rewritten them into entirely different people. She never dared to call him 'ser' or 'lord' to his face. Only a few times had she caught her speaking in her sleep. Lord and Lady Clegane, she'd talked about. He didn't mention it when she'd woke.

Resting on his thigh, Sandor tested his luck and moved his hand to rest on her leg—something he'd only done when she'd fallen asleep. She rested back against him, letting her head loll against his shoulder.

The sun was slow to set when they were on such high hills. As the path curved its way down the other side to the valley, they would follow the sun until it fell to the other side of the Seven Kingdoms. He knew this path in his blood, but didn't dare speak of the direction they went toward.

Soon, they'd come upon a small village and be able to stay for more than a quick rest.

Sansa pulled him from his thoughts when she moved his scared hand to rest in her lap. Examining each finger, she let the pads of her fingers trace over each digit and over the back of his hand. Battle scars crisscrossed his hand and wrist, thankfully she couldn't pull his sleeve up to see the worse scars. They both knew it was the hand he held his sword in during battle. The scars shouldn't have bothered him, but once Sansa began to trace the gashes that had grown closed, the massive man that could behead a worthless man in one swoop felt shy.

He didn't know what to say, if there was anything to say, but instead he tried to pull his hand from her.

"Stop. Let me see." She brought the palm of his hand to rest on her abdomen until he relaxed. "I wish to see all of you, scars and all."

He thanked the gods she faced away from him. Every nerve in him burned with one thousand suns. The very veins in his body boiled in the best way possible. There'd be no way he could kick Stranger into a trot without her noticing. He didn't want her to think he wanted her, but Sansa knew better. A beautiful, smart girl, she'd probably known since before they'd left the battle.

"You shouldn't want to study the scars of a man."

She kept silent, but still traced the markings on his flesh as they rode on.

It wasn't long before she brought his hand to her abdomen again. This time, she rested her head and breathed slowly. Her soft snores and the sound of Stranger walking a calming lullaby.

They crested another hill and he saw first sign of the village. Trees grew thicker than they did anywhere else, causing the village to be practically hidden. White smoke that billowed from houses would be a giveaway to those looking close enough.

"Sansa," he whispered into her ear. She blinked her eyes open, stretching against him.

"Where are we?" She pulled her fiery hair off to the side, exposing her bare neck and shoulder to him.

"My home."


	2. Chapter 2

"You're home?" Still being clutched by Sandor, she spun as much as she could. "Sandor, is this where you were born?"

"Aye."

Stranger had been a mere colt the last time he'd been here, though he still knew where the stables of the Clegane family were. Most of the village had blown out their candles and, no doubt, gone to rest—something Sandor couldn't wait to do.

Rest. In a house. With an actual bed and four walls. And maybe he'd be able to properly bathe without having to keep an eye on their surroundings.

Here they would be able to be normal people. As normal as the unlikely pair could be.

Stranger stopped outside of the stables, waiting for them to dismount. Like every night, Sandor dismounted before assisting Sansa to the ground. She tried, best she could, to straighten her dress while still looking as lady like as possible.

"Wait here," he told her.

He unsaddled Stranger and penned him along with a large bag of feed and fresh water from the top of the mountain.

"Be a good boy, now." He gave the monster-horse a good brushing. The thick hairs sliding through the bristles of the brush with ease.

"Um, I'm here with my husband, he's in the stalls." He hadn't heard anyone walk up, which left it to be only one of a few people. But Sansa's voice cracked, her nerves sending her emotions shooting back toward the unstable level they'd been at King's Landing.

With his sword still in its sheath, he rested his hand on the hilt—just in case some Lannister crony had found them.

Instead, what he walked out to was a thin woman no taller than Sansa, with jet black hair down to her waist and a black cloak to match. The candle lit up her round face and soft features.

The woman looked to him and back at Sansa, and back to him.

"Your husband? Now, child, no lying to me."

Sansa's face fell. She backed a few steps to stand in front of Sandor—her protector. The woman stared at her as she grabbed his hand to wrap around her waist. A way to show the woman in black that she was married to him. Terrified, but married.

"My brother wouldn't forget to mention something like that to me."

Sandor cared deeply for Sansa, however he hadn't lain eyes upon his only sister since he'd left the village nearly twenty years ago. The only contact he'd had with Rosen had been through letters.

He moved around the girl in one step to sweep his sister into a death-hug. The lantern swung with her arms, but the flame never wavered in the glass case.

"You've grown," she laughed once she'd been placed back on the ground.

"You've not."

Rosen gave him a light slap on the chest. Her brilliant green eyes flickered from him to Sansa. Try as she might, Rosen couldn't look like a hungry dog no matter how hard she tried. He barked a laugh as she sized up Sansa.

"Married? Girl, why would you tell you're married?" Rosen's attention went from Sansa back to Sandor. "Gods, you haven't kidnapped the poor the girl have you?"

He shook his head no.

"We've rescued each other. She was betrothed to the new boy king, Joffrey."

Rosen's eyes grew wide. "You'll stay as long as you like brother. And you, girl, do you have a name?"

The fear of another person's status had never made Rosen flinch.

Sandor had grown up watching his small, youngest sibling spar with the mountain of an older brother they shared and won. While most of her fire came from her words, Rosen was as good with a sword as Gregor or Sandor were.

"Sansa." She'd whispered before perking up. "My name is Sansa."

"Come now, let's get you both settled. Though we have only one spare. Tis a nice cottage, Sansa will only be a little ways away from home, brother."

"I'd rest easier sleeping on the floor. I can grab some pelts to sleep on." Sandor tried to keep his excitement under control although he was sure Rosen could see right through him.

"Very well," she answered, oblivious to his emotions. The three of them walked from the stables to a cottage near the edge of the village. Rosen ran inside and returned with a pile of pelts and a small pillow. "Here, I'd bring you in, but the children—"

"Children?" Sandor said breathlessly.

He'd forgotten entirely about his nieces and nephews once he'd spotted his sister. There were a herd of them, one girl and four boys. All very close in age. Sandor had dreamed of children, but never five.

Now that dream had faded with age. And no woman dared look at Gregor with family in mind.

"Sansa, Brother," Rosen clutched the hand of her elder brother, "I'll bid you goodnight."

Holding the pelts, Sandor wrapped her into a tight hug, placing a kiss on her forehead.

"Goodnight," Sansa replied, waiting patiently for Sandor to lead her to the empty cottage.

Rosen had been right. The cottage had one open room. He remembered it from his childhood, an old couple lived there. It looked small when he could hardly reach the doorknob. As he stood at the entrance now, he had to bend over to clear the doorway.

"M'lady," he laughed. His hand out to lead Sansa inside.

"Thank you m'lord." She curtly nodded at him with a devilish smile painted on her pretty lips.

Just as they would when they stopped along the path, Sansa began to build a fire from the few logs that were in the cottage. Sandor disappeared outside, looking for any meat and found a freshly hung chicken. His tongue darted out, wetting his lips.

He'd pay the man in the morning for his trouble.

"A feast tonight." He walked in to find Sansa layering the pelts on the massive bed. She moved around the bed as if she'd been a servant all her life—tucking the pelts at the end of the bed and pulling them away from the pillows.

She turned to look at him, eyes glittering in the light of the fire. They rest upon the chicken and, momentarily, she winced at the naked and headless meat. He laughed at her reaction.

"Never seen a dead chicken?"

"Not like that." She tucked her long tendrils behind her ears once she stood near him.

He readied the chicken to cook over the fire with Sansa's attentive eyes on his work. She watched it settled over the flames as he sat back on the floor.

"Will it be long?" She questioned, standing by the fire.

"It will be a bit. Sit, rest. I won't eat it all."

Next to the fire, he rested back on his arm, letting the warmth dance over him. The only place he'd been comfortable near a fire was home. And, even though it wasn't home-home, it was close enough.

"Sandor," she cooed, still standing over him.

With his eyes closed he answered her. A small _woosh_ followed by the feeling of fabric on his hand jerked him from the miniature relaxation. Every muscle in his body tensed, almost afraid to open his eyes.

Sansa cleared her throat.

With a deep breath and prayers that he wasn't about to wake up from some dream, Sandor sat up, facing the cooking chicken and opened his eyes. The chicken still cooked. He twisted to see Sansa, who stood in nothing but her shift and long hair. Her unmarked skin glowed against the dark gray material that hugged her curves. Even with her eyes covered by the shadows and loose hair, he could see the hunger in them.

"Sandor, can I see all of you?"

Never before had he jumped to his feet so fast.

Just as fast as he got to his feet, he froze, unsure of the next move. He'd had plenty of whores, but no one came anywhere close to the perfection of Sansa Stark. She would be treated much different from the whores he'd lain with.

He didn't have to make the next move, she closed the space between them, resting her hand on his expanse chest. One touch and she could have stopped his heart cold.

"You'll say if it's too much." He covered her hand with his.

"Yes."

They both froze where they stood like a couple of young children exploring the opposite sex for the first time. For Sansa, it was the first time. Poor girl, he thought. First time seeing a man naked and it's with a dog.

Sandor inhaled, moved his hands to the bottom of his tunic, and pulled it over his head.

He knew he had more hair than most men his age. It was the reason behind his thick beard and long hair that covered his scarred face. He waited for her to reject him, but her hand came to rest near his shoulder. And then her body pressed against his, as flush as she could. No doubt she could feel his hard cock pressing at her stomach.

"Sandor, I wish to see all of you."

She lifted her hand to cup his face. Sansa stood on the tips of her toes to kiss him, but he stopped her.

"Aye, none of that, yet." He instead kissed the palm of her hand. "You're sure? Past aside, you know what this will do to you once you look for a suitable husband?"

She winced like he'd pinched her.

The stupidity of his words slapped him across the face. He went to grab his tunic, maybe it'd be better if he _did_ sleep on the floor.

"Stop," she ordered. Her fingers hooked the top of his breeches and yanked them down, exposing him entirely. She gasped and covered her mouth. "That's supposed to fit in me?"

A look of wild panic crossed her face and her face went white.

"Wait, wait, you're moving too fast for me." He explained it would hurt but it would feel so much better. "I can make you feel like the gods have given you the best gift in all the lands. But first, we need to go slow so I don't hurt you more than it will."

It was all it took to give Sansa her confidence back.

"Can I touch it?"

"Aye."

He wanted so badly to watch her small hands wrap around his length, it took all he could to look straight ahead and not bend her over in front of the fire to take her.

"Are they all this huge?"

He laughed. "No, not all."

Her fingers danced on his cock. She wrapped both hands around the base and stroked him a few times.

"Stop."

"Am I doing it wrong?" She jerked both of her hands back, fear in her eyes.

"Hells girl, no. If you keep at it, I won't control myself. You can play with that all you want, but I want you to feel something else first." He knew it sounded weak, but all he wanted to play with her and make her squirm under his touch. Sandor lifted her, allowing her legs to wrap around him.

Her small stature made it easy to center her on the pelts, the soft fur cradling her. He ran a finger over her collar bone and felt her shiver under his touch.

Standing, he towered over her. Positioned over her, he grew scared he could crush the poor girl.

She looked at his lips and back at eyes. The blue orbs danced between the two until she'd gathered courage to bring his face to hers, crashing their lips together. He kissed gently until she kissed back with more and more fervor.

Sandor pawed at her breast through the fabric. Perky and firm breasts that had yet to be uncovered. His beard would usually tickle her bare skin. As it brushed against her along with his soft kisses, she began to squirm and moan. It drove him mad not to rip the fabric from her body and ravage her all night. His lips traced along the neckline of the shift.

"Are you quite fond of this?" His index finger hooked under one of the straps.

She looked down at him, confused.

"I'm going to tear this from your body." He stared at her, deadpan. Waiting for an answer.

All she could do was nod. Her plump, and now slightly bruised, lips parted and her chest rose and fell, but no sound came from her.

Those large doe eyes concentrated on his eyes as he took the shift fabric in his mouth. One sharp jerk tore the shift between her lush breasts. She jerked with a loud moan. Under his chest, she moved her hips in a way she'd never done before. He tore the rest of the shift as she continued with her small mews of approval.

He wanted to study every bit of her flesh, but knew how short his patience grew shorter the longer he waited.

Between her legs grew copper hairs that matched the ones on her head.

"I need you to swear that you'll tell me to stop if it's too much Sansa." He gripped her hips and watched her nod her head again, this time fear twinkling on the edge of the blue. "I need you to say it, girl." His voice grew raspy, once syllable and he'd bury his face between her legs until she begged him to stop.

"I—I swear." Her eyebrows knit together in typical Sansa style.

Sandor rested a thigh on each of his shoulders. He licked over the sensitive bundle of nerves and Sansa almost shot through the roof of the cottage. He waited for no response and did it again. And again. Over and over Sandor laid assault to her most sacred part. His arms wrapped around her hips so he could reach his fingers to spread her open for him. Sansa propped herself onto her elbows, intently watching him with her mouth slack.

When she'd grown into a steady rumbling moan, Sandor took her slit into his mouth. He could feel his cock straining against the bed as he sucked on her.

There'd never been a woman he'd come across that could explode the way Sansa did. He hadn't touched her nipples at all. He hadn't even stuck a finger in her cunt, only licked and nipped at her slit until she shook fiercely and tossed her back against the bed, panting. Sandor continued lapping at her until he could see her chest rise and fall in a steady and normal rhythm.

He stopped, taking in the sight before him.

No sight in the Seven Kingdoms had ever looked so beautiful. Not leaving King's Landing. Not seeing his sister again. Nothing.

And he knew the way to make her madder than she'd ever been before.

"I expect the chicken will be done shortly." He gave the heaven between her legs one more kiss before he jumped off the bed, pulling his breeches back on. Sandor made quick work of finishing the chicken as Sansa berated him from the bed, begging him to return to her and promising she wasn't hungry anymore. "Shush now, put that on," he tore a leg of the chicken off and jabbed it in the direction of his tunic.

It wasn't as great at being between her legs, but seeing Sansa Stark in his tunic—hair disheveled, cheeks rosey—came very close.

"Come here now, eat. You'll need it." He shot her a sly grin.

The girl sat cross-legged in front of him, his tunic covering her much more than her shift had. He handed her a bit of chicken.

"Can I do something?" She watched him take another piece of the chicken.

"If you want to continue, you'll need to give me a moment. I haven't had decent chicken in months."

Lifting her hand to his mouth, she fed him a small bit of the chicken breast. Her silencing fingers hesitated on his lips until he sucked one into his mouth. She watched him with curious and hungry eyes.

In turn, he fed her a piece of the chicken, she chewed twice and swallowed before grabbing his hand and sucking one of his thick fingers into her delicate mouth. He'd grown soft as his body focused on the food, but when her tongue swirled around his finger, he growled and set the food aside.

"Come here." Sandor scooped her into his lap, resting her crutch near his clothed cock. His hand blindly reached out for the horn of wine. He took a deep drink then handed it to Sansa. She tipped the horn back and drained the entire thing down her throat. When she came back, Sandor howled with laughter. A small drop escaped her lips as she broke into a fit of giggles.

He growled again, lapping up the drop.

They fell back onto the floor in a flurry of kissing and pawing at each other.

"Tell me what to do," she laughed, straddling his waist. Her slender hips ground against him.

"Girl, if I took you like this—right now—" he moaned as she let her copper hair fall over her shoulder, "I would break you right in half."

Before when he'd mentioned going too fast, she looked fearful. Now, it seemed, she took it as a challenge.

"Damn you," he cursed. "Bed. Now."

Sandor Clegane had never found himself in such a situation that tore him in half. A fight with himself. One side—wanted to fuck her until the world ended. The other side—make gentle and sweet love to her like a woman such as Sansa Stark deserved.

It clicked as she strutted over to the bed.

He didn't wait to watch her little show, instead lifted her to the middle of the bed. She yanked his tunic off of her and threw it off to the side of the room, followed by his breeches. This time he laid next to her, his cock laying on her thigh. Pert little nubs begging to be sucked, he fondled one breast, leaving the other to be suckled on like a new babe.

Her hips rolled almost instantly. She tried, in vain, to move his hand down to her curls, but gave into his actions.

"Please Sandor," she begged. "Please."

She didn't know what she wanted, but she knew she wanted something. Sandor didn't doubt she'd get what she wanted, just like the little brat she'd been in Winterfell. Sandor also knew that he couldn't deny her anything. One look at those dashing blue eyes and he'd give her the world if he could.

"Ask me again from those perfect lips."

Sansa turned her head and looked him dead in the eye, her brows furrowed in a wanting pain.

"Please, take me. However you want me. Take me Sandor."


End file.
